


Turning the World

by octoberburns



Series: The Almèreva Revolution [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Knife Bisexuals, M/M, Politics, Revolutionaries, Significant Touching, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberburns/pseuds/octoberburns
Summary: Three months ago, Monteo della Scalla interrupted an assassination attempt, attacked the Seneschal of Almèreva, and unintentionally joined the resistance. Since then he's committed himself wholly to the cause of liberating his home—and to Juniper Fortuna, the brave, beautiful, consummately driven revolutionary who has become the star around which his new life turns its orbit.Political exile in Fiarri means new challenges, and new opportunities to help the Almèrevan resistance. Now if only Monteo can figure out how to turn them to his advantage.
Series: The Almèreva Revolution [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660561
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Turning the World

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what happens when I give up on my pretence that I'm writing stories in the 1–2k range and admit I'm aiming for 9k: a story that was 15k until I managed to cut approximately 600 words from it. You're all fucking welcome.
> 
> I genuinely love this though and I'm _extremely_ excited to really get things rolling on the Almèreva series, so, I think it all worked out. We are now solidly into sequel territory; this one isn't going to make sense if you haven't read at least Night Falls on Sovereign Almèreva, and you'll also likely be missing some context without As Moths in the Flame. You have been warned!
> 
> My thanks, as ever, to my supporters, who are the wind beneath my wings: Alex, Ashley, Marlon, and everyone else. Thanks also to my friends who have been hanging out with me in the tiny Almèreva Discord server I made. That has been enormously fun.
> 
> Enjoy.

There was a common misconception about the College of Mages. In fact just saying that made the nature of the problem clear: people heard “the College of Mages,” and assumed that was a singular entity. In fairness, part of that was the mages’ own fault: they were in many ways rather distressingly insulated from the rest of the world, as Monteo had had good cause to learn since fleeing to Fiarri. But there was also an unfortunate tendency amongst non-mages to assume some sort of sinister grand conspiracy between anyone who practiced magic.

Frankly, his life would have been simpler if that was true.

“I really don’t know what I can promise,” Master Niccolo Orsini was saying. He was an elf, nearly as dark as Monteo himself, with brilliant yellow eyes and a permanently concerned expression. “It’s an honour to have you, Master della Scalla, really, but the dean—”

“Orsini, how many times do I have to tell you to just call me della Scalla?” Monteo said. “I’m not actually a visiting lecturer, I’m a political refugee. And I’m not asking you to guarantee anything. I just want to speak to him.”

They were in one of the private rooms used by the masters of the College for meetings too large to be held in their workrooms—and for eating their luncheons in company. There were a few other mages presently using it for that purpose, all doing their best to pretend they weren’t blatantly eavesdropping. Monteo was ignoring them. He didn’t have an office here, after all; it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to hold a meeting. He was stuck with this room, the Cialdoni parlour—which, despite the fancy name, was just an ordinary chamber with some bookshelves and comfortable armchairs, and a genuinely massive chandelier that had possibly been imported from Almèreva. As a dwarf, Monteo was in no danger of bumping his head, but it was still making him twitchy. He kept having to remind himself that there weren’t any ogres this far south.

“I know, I know,” Orsini said. “It’s simply—well, it’s difficult, what with you not being part of the College proper—and of course Almèreva is of paramount importance to you, but for him it’s hardly a pressing concern—and, you know, he’s very busy—”

“We’re all busy,” Monteo said patiently. Tempting as it was to snap at the man—or possibly to strangle him—it wouldn’t do any good. And Orsini had also been a great deal of help to him: it was he who had sponsored Monteo for status as a visiting lecturer, which allowed him access to the Fiarran College and the right to practice magic in the city. It wasn’t Orsini’s fault he was now asking for more.

And besides, Monteo wouldn’t be any help to Juniper if he got himself kicked out of the College.

He took a calming breath. “Just fifteen minutes,” he said. “He must be able to spare fifteen minutes sometime in the next week, right?”

Monteo was an accredited master of the College of Mages of Almèreva. If the College actually were a singular entity, rather than a scattered association of two or three dozen independent academic institutions, he could have walked into the dean’s office himself and arranged a meeting with his secretary for the next morning. Instead, he was reduced to begging reluctant intermediaries.

“You’re wasting your time,” said Master Agabito Margani from the other side of the room. A crotchety dwarf of venerable age, he was never found further from the hearth than he had to be if he could at all help it. “The Dean of the College doesn’t get involved in politics. You ought to know that.”

Monteo tried briefly to picture Zaneta Bocasso, the Dean of the Almèrevan College of Mages, refraining from involving herself in politics, and had to choke down a laugh.

“Don’t be so sour, Agabito,” said a fourth voice agreeably. That was Master Alessia Subatara, standing from her chair and shaking smooth the front of her robe. She came over to where Orsini was still wringing his hands nervously at Monteo. “And besides, you know that’s not true. Your old-fashioned sensibilities are very honourable, but not remotely realistic.”

Margani subsided, grumbling into his beard. Monteo grinned up at Subatara. She was of middling years and short for an elf, which in his view made her very nearly a sensible height; she had a smattering of freckles across her gently lined face that reminded him achingly of home. Her eyes, as occasionally happened, had not brightened up to some improbable colour when she began practicing magic, but darkened to an abyssal black; like most mages, she kept them sensibly concealed behind tinted lenses. She had been one of the first mages he had met on arriving in Fiarri, and he was sort of fond of her.

She offered him a wry smile of her own and said, “If you’d rather not involve yourself, Niccolo, I’ll make the arrangements.”

To Orsini’s credit, his sigh of relief was nearly inaudible. “Would you mind?” he said, turning to Monteo. “I know I’ve been your sponsor thus far, but—“

Amiably Monteo waved him off. “As long as I get the meeting, I don’t care who arranges it. You have my thanks, Master Subatara.”

“Oh, call me Alessia,” she said, as Orsini quietly slunk off. “Frankly someone ought to do something. We’ve had people settle here from Almèreva, but never any mages. None of us had any idea how bad it was.”

“Alessia, then,” Monteo said. “In which case you must call me Monteo. And thank you again, sincerely. If the College can do anything to help—”

“I will speak with the dean,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t count on a fighting force, but I’m certain we can provide _some_ form of support. We do have a great deal of independence, after all.”

“We would be in your debt.”

“Come back tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Hopefully I’ll have word for you by then.”

Monteo gave her a flourishing bow and took his leave.

He was still buoyant as he exited the College, crossing the now-familiar plaza to the stall there that sold food to hungry students and masters alike. He bought flatbread and a skewer of lamb drizzled with mint sauce—and would it ever stop surprising him how inexpensive meat was in Fiarri?—and made his way down to the waterfront. He had made it his habit to take his luncheon there on the days he visited the College. The sentimental observer might have described that as a sure sign of homesickness; but, while it was true that he found himself constantly unsettled by the sheer solidity of the city beneath his feet, the true reason was much more prosaic.

Namely, there were _merpeople_ here.

There had, once, been merpeople in Almèreva as well. They had lived not just in the lagoon and along the island chain that served as its breakwater, but in the canals of the city itself. Signs of their presence still remained in the carvings that decorated many of the city’s public buildings, and the furniture of establishments like the Red Door, where Monteo’s fateful career as a revolutionary had begun three months past. There was even a merwoman on Almèreva’s full formal crest, though it was rarely used now in favour of the Prince’s personal seal.

And there was the problem: the Prince. Almèreva’s merpeople hadn’t taken well to his attempts to control their movements as he did the rest of his subjects’. And in the years after he had taken power, they had left, first in small groups and then en masse, until finally there were none remaining.

But here in Fiarri, they still thrived.

Balancing his lunch on his lap, Monteo settled on the low retaining wall that kept the College grounds from falling into the sea. There were some students—both mages and academics from the nearby university—lounging on the lawn or walking to their lectures, but most of them avoided the waterfront. Monteo’s nebulous understanding, gleaned from context after three months in the city, was that the locals found the fishy smell unpleasant—but to him it just smelled like a healthy canal.

He passed a contented fifteen minutes there slowly working his way through the flatbread and lamb. He had nearly finished when the first of the weedy green heads popped out of the water and chirped at him.

“Mf,” he said, and swallowed his last mouthful. “Hello! Just a moment, let me—”

He muttered under his breath and twisted his hands together, spinning a disk of power between his palms and touching it to both ears. Then he repeated the motion, leaning forward over the water; obligingly, the young merwoman lifted herself up onto a boulder and allowed him to do the same to her. As she settled into a seat on the rocks below the retaining wall, her brother appeared behind her, and then a third merperson, a young man Monteo didn’t recognize. Gamely he repeated the spell for both of them—the newcomer had obviously been briefed on what to expect, and submitted to it easily—then settled himself back on the wall. They, like the woman, found seats on the stones where they could leave their tails trailing in the water.

Merpeople resembled elves in shape, at least from the waist up, lacking the broad, blocky proportions of the dwarves. They had scales, rather than skin, covering their bodies, in varying shades of watery blues and shimmering greens; their hair was thick, and fluffy when dry, more closely resembling seaweed than anything that grew from Monteo’s head. Below the waist, their hips tapered off into long, sinuous tails, as lovely as they were alien.

“Hello, Sanderling, Lapwing,” he said. “Who have you brought along today?”

“Good afternoon, Monteo,” Sanderling said politely, rendering his name as an approximation of sounds in low tones and clicks. “This is Eelgrass. He’s our father’s cousin’s son.”

The word she had used that made itself understood as “father’s cousin’s son” in Monteo’s mind was only two syllables long—or what passed for two syllables in a language primarily composed of clicks, chirps, and musical groans. The practical effect was a rapid rush of meaning squished into a too-short span, a phenomenon Monteo had grown used to since he’d begun having regular conversations with the Fiarran merpeople. Translation spells were useful, but they did have their quirks—such as over-interpreting the meanings of personal names in the merpeople’s tongue, leading to Monteo being obliged to address someone by such an improbable moniker as “Eelgrass.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Eelgrass,” he said. Firmly he reminded himself that “Sanderling” and “Lapwing” had sounded just as strange at first. “So, if you’re related, does that mean your family came from Almèreva as well?”

Eelgrass fluttered one webbed hand in the gesture that was the merpeople’s equivalent of a nod. “My parents were just fingerlings when our grandparents left,” he said. “They don’t remember it at all.”

“That’s too bad,” Monteo said. “It’s a beautiful city. I miss it.”

Lapwing pulled a face. He was younger than Sanderling, perhaps fifteen years old, and less practiced at controlling his expressions. “What’s to miss?” he said. “My grandfather says the Prince is horrible. We’re better off in Fiarri, he says. Good riddance to rotten kelp.”

“Lapwing, don’t be rude,” Sanderling said, casting Monteo a glance of anguished apology. Of all the young merpeople who came to hear his stories of their lost ancestral home, he had spoken with her by far the most—and had confessed things to her listening ear that none of the others had heard.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’s a fair question. Though you could work on your tact,” he added, casting Lapwing a dry look. The boy had the grace to look sheepish, ducking his head to let his springy green hair fall forward over his face.

“Your grandfather is right about the Prince,” Monteo continued. “But the Prince isn’t the city. There are a lot of good people there, many of them fighting back against him. And it’s where I’ve lived my entire life up till now. My mother and the rest of my family and all my friends are there.” All but one, notable for the significance of his presence in Monteo’s new life. “I know its sights and smells and where to get the best pastries. I have favourite shops, and clubs, and an office at the College, and when the light is right the setting sun turns the whole city to gold. It’s my _home_.”

The three young merpeople were silent for a moment, and then Eelgrass sighed wistfully. “It sounds wonderful,” he said. “I’d like to see it someday.”

“Well,” Monteo said. “Don’t mistake me. I’m homesick, but in a lot of ways Almèreva isn’t a good place to live. Especially not for those less fortunate than me.” An image flashed through his mind: a starfield of freckles on a heartbreakingly beautiful face, dark eyes and tumbled black curls and a smile like the edge of a knife. He swallowed. “To be honest, I didn’t really understand that myself until the day I had to leave.”

“Why _did_ you leave?” Lapwing asked, so innocent and offhand that Monteo had to laugh despite himself.

“That’s sort of a long story,” he said. “And most of it belongs to someone else. How about I tell you about the Veiled Cathedral instead?”

That got their attention: even the merpeople had heard of Almèreva’s famous cathedral, renowned for its beauty throughout the Otrinic Sea. Sanderling, who had been quietly observing the conversation as Monteo answered Lapwing and Eelgrass, also sat forward with interest—though he could tell from the look she gave him that she was aware of his dodging the question. That was fine; she knew how to keep things to herself.

And so he launched into a description of the cathedral: the small island it sat on, alone, framing the east side of the harbour against the backdrop of Almèreva’s wealthiest homes; the subtle iridescence of its shell-pink brickwork, and the gloriously carved limestone columns and arches that adorned its façade; the interior, full of winding paths and hidden alcoves and draping curtains, and the constant unexpected glimmers of stained glass that lit the floors in a glowing mosaic of colour. He spoke of the hymns of the priesthood, the soaring choral harmonies and resonant brass horns and the occasional lonely melody of a single seven-stringed viol. He talked until the translation spells began to fail, in fact, and then bid his rapt audience good day, with the promise that he’d be back at the same time tomorrow after his meeting with Alessia.

Today, Monteo had another errand: a visit to a glassblower’s of his acquaintance. In Almèreva this particular task could have been accomplished at the College—the city loved its glassworks, and the mages there had long ago incorporated the trade into their craft. But to his astonishment, when he had first inquired after the use of their glass workshop, the mages of the Fiarran College hadn’t even understood what he was asking for. And so he had instead been obliged to make alternate arrangements, bartering his magical skills to a tradeswoman in return for raw materials and the use of her furnace. Glassblowers could always make use of fireproofing spells and burn protections, after all, and they were costly to have refreshed; Signora Veralli had seized upon his offer with an alacrity that suggested he was severely undercharging her.

She and her second son were both using the furnace when Monteo arrived, and he greeted them with a wave without interrupting their work. He untied the sleeves of his doublet, rolling and pinning them up along with his shirtsleeves, then covered his body with a leather apron—one appropriately sized to a dwarf had appeared in the shop within two days of his arrangement. After three months he was comfortable with the rhythms of the workshop, and knew where all the supplies and tools were stored. Humming quietly to himself as he claimed the use of the third bench and gathered up a blowpipe, he exhaled all his other concerns, focusing on the pure power that was already welling up in his mouth.

Juniper was counting on him. He got to work.

Everything changed very quickly once they had resolved to flee.

There was a place to sleep tucked away in the back of Juniper’s resistance hideout—not much of one, but it had a pair of hard benches with blankets laid over them, sufficient for two exhausted people to snatch a few hours of rest. Monteo set a spell to wake him before dawn, and then Juniper blew out the lamps and seemingly went instantly to sleep, no doubt practiced at taking his rest where he could find it.

They were up again all of four hours later; Monteo, waking to the spell and having to shake Juniper awake in turn, almost got gutted for his trouble before the elf roused enough to recognize him. Juniper produced a pair of cloaks from the revolutionaries’ stores and dug out two days’ worth of food—dried figs, hard cheese, cured meats—and then they were off, hurrying across the city to Monteo’s apartments before the Seneschal’s people would have the chance to interrogate the College of Mages for his identity.

“Take only what you can carry,” Juniper said once they were inside, as Monteo cast about desperately for how to reduce a life spread through two comfortable rooms to something he could fit into a pack. “Money is the most important thing. Spare clothing, weapons if you have them, anything you don’t want to fall into the Prince’s hands.”

“All my research is at the College,” Monteo said. There was no question of going there to collect it. He dug into his belt pouch, pulling out a brass key and tossing it to Juniper. “I keep my money in the lockbox in that cabinet,” he said, pointing. “I’m going to change my clothes.”

Juniper didn’t hesitate. He had caught the key without blinking, and now crossed the room to the cabinet in five swift strides. Sometime between their careful accord last night and when he had woken this morning, his whole manner had changed. The elegant economy of his movements had gained a hard edge, and he carried himself with a deadly poise that made it easy to see how he had been so prepared to turn his knife on Monteo when he suspected him for a spy. With his provocative clothing hidden by the cloak, he had gone from astonishing to merely stunning, but his staggering self-possession was no less captivating than the delicate grace he had so achingly demonstrated the night before. He was beautiful and driven and knew exactly what he was doing, and he was Monteo’s only ally in the world.

Swallowing down the surge of awe that reared up in his throat, Monteo fled to his dressing room.

By the time he emerged, Juniper had scraped all the coins out of his lockbox and dumped them into a small satchel. He passed that to Monteo, who tucked it into his pack alongside the half dozen spare shirts, doublets, and pairs of hose he had stuffed in there. He had changed the ones he was wearing as well, sober forest green and brown instead of vivid gold and slashed damask. He had also packed his casket; he didn’t need it by any means, but some of his beard jewellery might be valuable enough to be worth selling.

“Anything else?” Juniper said.

“Some of the books,” Monteo replied, nodding to the nearby shelf. Most of his important materials were in his office, but he wasn’t going to give the Seneschal the excuse to paw through texts on magic if he could help it. He looked around his parlour as Juniper collected up the leather-bound volumes, struggling to think what else might be of use. “We may as well leave the rest,” he concluded finally. The only knife he owned was his belt-knife; he had never before needed weapons, and anyway what use were they to a mage of his calibre? Everything else he could have brought was merely sentimental, and they didn’t have the means.

“This is probably impossible,” he said, before he could think better of it, “but is there any way we could leave a message for my mother?”

Juniper’s eyes softened at that, and he let his hand linger for just a moment as he handed Monteo the books. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s safer if she has no word. Dangerous enough for her to be related to you as it is, and if they thought she was hiding something—”

“No, no, I know. You’re right,” Monteo said. He tried very hard not to think of the mess he was abandoning her to, and didn’t entirely succeed. She had never quite recovered from his father’s death a decade past; what would she do at the loss of one of her sons? She had his brothers and sister to look after her, of course, but—

Juniper touched his hand again. “We should go,” he said gently.

Monteo took a deep breath, looking around his apartments one last time. “Yeah,” he said, and settled his lenses more firmly onto his nose. “Let’s get out of here.”

It was only just past dawn when they left, a pale spring morning with no hint of the summer yet to come. They mingled with the trickle of early morning workers and academics on their way to the university; Monteo kept an eye to Juniper’s lead and just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually they came to the part of the del Pesci quarter that butted up against the docks. There Juniper led them to another hideout, a dingy cellar entrance facing onto a sluggish, foul-smelling canal. Monteo expected the interior to be just as dubious, but in fact it was clean and dry, walled in rough stone and entirely empty but for a table with four chairs, a lantern, and two small leather packs.

Juniper latched the bolt firmly behind them and went to the table to light the lantern. As Monteo inspected the room they now found themselves in, he opened one of the packs to pull out a whetstone and a polishing cloth, then produced a knife from somewhere on his person. From what Monteo could tell, it wasn’t the same one he’d threatened him with the night before.

“You should take the chance to rest while we have it,” Juniper said as he removed his cloak and sat at the table. “Who can say how our night will go?”

He was still wearing the diaphanous linen shirt he’d had on the night before, with nothing to cover it. Monteo didn’t know where to look. He unslung his pack from his shoulder, dropping it by the door with his own cloak. “How many places like this are there in the city?”

Juniper shrugged. “No idea. This one isn’t ours. We’re borrowing it from someone a friend of mine knows.”

Monteo hesitated. “The Seneschal said—you work out of dell’Altamarea?”

“I _did_ ,” Juniper corrected him, with a mirthless smile. His hands were busy, honing his blade to a fine edge. “We’re not the only ones who do, but I don’t know how many others there are. None of us do. No one can resist torture forever, and you can only give up the names you know.”

This was the world he had walked into, Monteo reminded himself. This was the consequence of having interfered with Juniper’s assassination attempt. He had taken this on willingly when he attacked the Seneschal.

Juniper’s eyes softened again, just for a moment, and then he looked back to his knife. “You should sleep, if you can,” he said. “I’ll wake you for luncheon.”

In the end Monteo did wind up napping on the floor, using his pack for a pillow and the cloak for a blanket, though he woke with a stiff neck before Juniper had cause to rouse him. The other man was still seated at the table, now studying what looked to be a map; arranged in front him were six knives of varying styles and sizes, all polished to a mirror finish.

“Did you have all of those on you?” Monteo demanded muzzily, before he could think better of it.

“Not at the club,” Juniper said. “I picked them up from our stores.” The look he flashed Monteo then was, unexpectedly, pure mischief. “You know it’s illegal to carry a sword.”

Monteo snorted and turned away to dig a book from his pack. If he tried very hard, he might even be able to pretend he wasn’t just beating a hasty retreat from the heat that expression had stirred in him.

The day passed slowly. Monteo leafed through the books he had brought, then abandoned them to join Juniper at the table. Juniper finished with his maps and produced a deck of cards, and they whiled away a couple hours on playing tressette as they ate their lunch. Around midafternoon Juniper set the cards aside to kneel in prayer, though exactly what he asked of the Lady of the Gardens Monteo couldn’t have said: he didn’t pray aloud. Eventually he settled himself into a corner to catch up on his sleep—Monteo didn’t miss that he replaced all his various knives before he did so—and left Monteo to flip fruitlessly through his books again. Outside the room’s single grimy window, the sky gradually began to darken.

Juniper woke around sundown. He doled out another unsatisfying meal from their stores, then shrugged a doublet on over his shirt, tying it one-handed as they made their way from the hideout. Once again Monteo followed as he led them through twisting side streets and up and down staircases he never would have guessed existed. The curfew was just coming into effect, and the streets were empty but for the Seneschal’s enforcers; Juniper steered them clear of the patrols by some pattern or intuition Monteo couldn’t make sense of.

The part of Almèreva that surrounded the mercantile docks was called the Foreigners’ quarter. It was walled off, restricted to all but visiting sailors, dockhands, and those merchants and tradespeople loyal—and influential—enough to buy dispensation to do business there. Its gates were guarded, but there were other ways in and out, and the guards were stretched thin policing them at the best of times—because the Foreigners’ quarter was also the only part of Almèreva, save the palace itself, that was not subject to curfew.

The entrance Juniper took them in by was one Monteo had never heard of: a culvert at the walled-off end of a narrow canal. It was traversable by means of concealed handholds and a narrow footpath—which Monteo learned when he was treated, for the second time in under twenty-four hours, to the sight of Juniper seemingly vaulting directly into the canal before them. He followed, slightly more cautiously; and when they clambered out at the other end it was onto a hidden blind alley, just one street over from a thoroughfare every bit as lively as Monteo normally associated only with the afternoon markets.

Juniper resettled his packs and twitched his cloak straight, concealing the evidence of their illicit passage. “When we meet my contact, let me do the talking. And remember to walk like you belong,” he said, and then proceeded to do exactly that as he started towards the nearby street.

Monteo had no idea how he could be so sure of himself—but if he just followed his lead maybe some of it would rub off on him. He tried to match Juniper’s gait as they made their way along the docks, passing taverns and warehouses, market stalls and merchant offices; he wasn’t sure it was entirely working, but no one had stopped them yet.

Finally, by no sign Monteo could discern, Juniper turned onto one of the long piers that jutted out into the lagoon. This walkway was quieter: but for a few stragglers, the sailors and dockhands were either ashore at the taverns or standing watch on the decks of their ships. Here their way was lit only by torches; they had passed well outside the circle of light cast by the street lamps—almost to the end of the dock, in fact, where they found a rough-faced, broad-shouldered elven woman hauling crates one by one from the pier to the deck of an unremarkable cog.

Juniper approached her, with a smile that was as polite as it was remote. “I’m told this is the _Harlequin_ ,” he said. “I’m a friend of Caterucia’s.”

The woman turned to face him without setting down the crate she was carrying, giving him a slow look over. She hiked a brow. “You Junipera?” she said. Her accent sounded southern, Lassese or maybe Fiarran. “Thought that was a woman’s name.”

Juniper’s smile didn’t waver. “Not Junipera,” he said. “Juniper. Like the plant.”

The woman grunted. “Yeah, you’re him. She said you’d say that.” Her eyes slid to Monteo. “Who’s your friend?”

“Yes, about that,” Juniper said. “There’s been a change of plans. You’ll need to take us both.”

She grunted again, this time sounding distinctly less pleased, and lowered the crate in her arms to the pier. “I’m not equipped for refugees,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “This isn’t a rescue service. I agreed to take you because they told me you were someone who’d make a difference. No one said anything about a second passenger.”

Monteo caught a sharp breath, but Juniper didn’t even blink. “Plans change,” he said again. “If you need someone to vouch for him, I will. You want to make a difference to this fight? Get us both out.”

The woman’s jaw tightened. “My contact vouched for your boss, and your boss vouched for you,” she said. “Three steps is far enough. I don’t trust you, and I _won’t_ trust him.”

“Monteo, show her your eyes,” Juniper said, without looking around.

Obligingly Monteo plucked the tinted lenses from his nose to reveal the mage-bright cerulean of his irises, visible even in the smoky torchlight. Too late, the woman muffled a sound of surprise.

Juniper was still smiling, but there was something changed in his face: his mouth was hard at the edges, and his dark eyes—natural black, not mage-dark—had gone flinty in a way Monteo had never seen before. “As I said. If you want to make a difference, you’ll take both of us. Take both of us, or take neither. If we have to find our own way, we will,” he said. “But I’ll remember.”

For a moment she looked like she wanted to hit him. Monteo almost flinched away, but Juniper just tilted his chin up half an inch with a look that dared her to try it. He was both shorter and slimmer than her, and their escape was utterly at her mercy. Standing against her he ought to have looked frail, or desperate, or terribly alone—but instead he was fierce and unafraid and nearly humming with command, and no power in the firmament could have convinced Monteo that anything would shake him from his feet.

Oh, Monteo thought, dizzy with the revelation. I’m in love with him. I’m in love with him, and I’m going to follow him to the ends of the earth if it means I still have even the slightest chance of helping his cause.

He was so caught in that realization that it was almost a shock when the woman finally spoke. “Fine,” she said, mulish and begrudging. “But I’d only accounted for one passenger. It won’t be comfortable.”

For the first time since the conversation had begun Juniper broke eye contact, his gaze skating to Monteo. “That’s fine,” he said. “We can share space.”

“I’m not especially large,” Monteo agreed, unthinking, giddy with relief and still processing his newfound understanding.

The expression on the woman’s face was sour as she hefted her crate once more. “Alright, get below if you’re coming,” she said. “We’ve lingered long enough as it is. I don’t need anyone else seeing me talking to you.”

“You have my thanks,” Juniper said. He was all charm and courtesy again, his hard edges tucked away where they could no longer be seen.

Unimpressed, she just gave him a flat look and jerked her head at the ship.

“Well, we did it,” Monteo said in an undertone as they made their way up the gangplank. “So, lucky Juniper, what next?”

The breath Juniper exhaled was just slightly shaky, the first and only sign he’d given that his perfect, iron poise hadn’t truly been absolute. “We’re not out of it yet,” he said. “We still have to get to Fiarri. But when we do—next, we find a way to turn the tide.”

The apartments Monteo and Juniper had taken in Fiarri were barely worth the name—but they both wanted to preserve all the money they could for more important costs, and so they made do with two tiny, bare rooms in the rough neighbourhood near the docks. The only furniture in the front room—there was no world in which Monteo could have called it a parlour—was the table and two chairs where they ate, played cards, and conducted all their business. The rest of the space was packed with a steady flow of crates, as Juniper found and shipped supplies for his people in Almèreva. In the bedroom there was space only for a single bed and the rickety wardrobe where they stored their meagre possessions; Juniper slept on a pallet in front of the door.

He was in the front room when Monteo returned that afternoon from Signora Veralli’s shop, presently engaged in packing up the disassembled pieces of some arcane apparatus with a lot of moving parts. As usual, Monteo had to pause in the doorway for a moment to collect himself: every time he’d been away longer than a few hours, he always became convinced that his mind had somehow exaggerated Juniper’s beauty.

As it turned out, no, he actually was that stunning.

Monteo had never again seen him as aggressively immodest as he’d been on the night they met, but in the privacy of their own apartments he was occasionally cavalier about being properly dressed, which was somehow even worse. Today, doing manual labour in the summer heat, he had unbuttoned the front of his plain blue doublet and left the sleeves untied, exposing his shirt and leaving Monteo to hastily avert his eyes from the sheen of sweat that had collected along his freckled collarbones. His hair was drawn back from his face in a messy knot, strands escaping to stick to the sides of his neck; his lips, lush and perfectly shaped even absent the deep red paint that had marked them on first meeting, were parted in exertion as he wrestled what looked like half a desk into a large crate.

Clearing his throat, Monteo shut the door behind him. “Hey, lucky Juniper. Need a hand?”

Juniper must have known he was there—he was always so precisely aware of his surroundings in a way Monteo still hadn’t entirely figured out—but only now did he stop what he was doing to glance up with a flash of a smile. Monteo tried not to think too hard on what it meant, that Juniper trusted him enough not to be immediately on guard at the first sign of his presence.

“I’m alright,” he said. “It’s just a bit awkward. I can manage.”

Monteo came over to him, unslinging the satchel from his shoulder as he went and setting it down on the table. “What have you got there, anyway?” he said, tilting his head to look at the dismantled parts still sitting on the floor awaiting storage. There was a rectangular frame, several heavy blocks of wood, the other half of the thing that resembled a desk, a metal crank, and—

“Penitent’s holy Name,” Monteo swore. “Where the fuck did you get your hands on a printing press?”

The smile Juniper shot him was as smug as it was coy. “Why, think it’ll be useful?”

“I’ll say,” Monteo said. “The Seneschal is going to _hate_ you.”

Juniper laughed. “As though he doesn’t have reason enough already.”

“There is that,” Monteo said, and took a seat at the table.

Juniper went back to loading the deconstructed pieces of the press into the crate, stuffing rags into the gaps to keep them from jostling. “How was the College?”

“Good, actually,” Monteo said. “Surprisingly. I might finally have made some progress on a meeting with the dean, one of the other masters is taking over from Orsini. She’s hoping to have news for me by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hmm,” Juniper said. He rubbed thoughtfully at the bridge of his nose, strong against the delicacy of his other features; the bronze bead in his left nostril winked against his hand. “Let me know. If we could get real support from the mages… well, it would change a lot.”

Monteo hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek, then said, “Why didn’t you ever try to get the College on your side in Almèreva?”

“You think we didn’t?” Juniper said, an ironic twist to his lips. He straightened up—Monteo had to look away from the collar of his shirt again—and distractedly shoved a stray lock of hair out of his face. “My group has a contact. We know there are sympathizers. But you’re as trapped as the rest of us—there’s only so much we can all do before we’re just putting ourselves in danger.”

And yet you agreed to try to assassinate the Seneschal, Monteo wanted to say, but he restrained himself. Juniper was the bravest person he had ever met. There was very little he wouldn’t have risked to free Almèreva.

“Oh!” Monteo said, abruptly reminded. “I spent the afternoon at the glassblower’s, I have some more of those globes. And none of them even exploded on me today!” he added. He pushed the satchel across the table; it clinked softly with the sound of half a dozen blown glass orbs jostling gently against each other. “I think I’ve finally nailed down the method.”

This time the smile Juniper gave him was entirely in earnest. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll pack them in with the others once I’m done with this.”

Monteo just smiled helplessly back at him.

The shockwave globes were his own invention. He’d had the idea during the cramped, uncomfortable few days he and Juniper had spent escaping Almèreva in the _Harlequin_ ’s hold. Juniper had been intently interested in what magic he was capable of, and they’d had nothing to do but talk; and so Monteo had outlined his capabilities extensively, from the abstract theory to the practical skills, from the highly technical precision of thaumaturgical manipulation down to the casual ambient spells he had running around his person on a near-constant basis. That had solved one mystery for Juniper—namely, how Monteo had been able to spot him slipping chiusura powder into the Seneschal’s wine—but he had been much more interested in the destructive spell Monteo had used to facilitate their escape. Something like that, he’d said, could be deployed by his people to considerable effect, if only it didn’t rely on them having a mage with them.

And Monteo, still reeling from having fallen so utterly, abruptly in love, had resolved to take it upon himself to fix that.

At last Juniper finished packing up the printing press. Monteo hopped up to help him, and together they levered the lid onto the crate. As Monteo sealed it up—setting each nail and driving it home with a tap of force from his index finger—Juniper took the satchel over to the smaller cushioned crate that had been steadily filling up with glass orbs over the course of the last three months.

“I’m meeting some people later,” he said, as he wrapped soft rags one by one around each of the globes. “New smuggler contacts. Poluccia is introducing me.” He glanced up, meeting Monteo’s eyes for a fleeting moment. “You don’t have to come.”

Juniper had done thousands of things more dangerous than meeting with smugglers in the company of someone he’d been working with for two years. He didn’t need Monteo’s protection. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Monteo said. “Of course I’ll come.”

Juniper had already shaken his hair from its work-knot by the time they needed to leave; now he strapped knives to both his forearms and tied the sleeves of his doublet over them, arranging the gaps so he could draw his blades without interference. More knives went into the tops of his boots, and another, worn openly, at his belt. He didn’t bother to do up the front of his doublet, which left him looking something between alluring and rough. He caught Monteo looking as they locked the apartments behind them, and just shrugged and said, with a wry twist of a smile, “Worse ways to dress when you’re meeting with criminals.”

The streets were bustling as the sun set; even after months in Fiarri, Monteo was still startled by it, and by the lack of apprehension that marked public gatherings no matter the hour. Friends laughed and spoke in the road; lamplighters lit lanterns not to police the streets but to brighten people’s way, towards home or the taverns or the evening markets, or wherever else they were bound. Hawkers called out to them as they made their way down the hill towards the docks; at one stall Juniper stopped to buy them fresh red snapper, wrapped in reed-paper and baked with olives and citron, and they ate the flaky fish with their fingers as they walked to their destination. Fiarri was alive all around them, and its heartbeat didn’t stop at sundown.

The waterfront tavern where they were meeting the smugglers was as raucous as the streets, or more. Once again Juniper pulled a sense of belonging seemingly from nowhere, shouldering his way through the press of people with a sure stride and a touch of swagger. At the back of the taproom they found a table of seafaring types, among them a brown-skinned elven man whose face Monteo recognized from the couple of times he had been home to see people moving Juniper’s cargo from their apartments.

Poluccia d’Almèreva tipped his head in greeting, kicking out a spare chair. “Fortuna.”

“Hello, Poluccia,” Juniper said, sinking into a relaxed seat. Monteo couldn’t match his casual ease, but he took the chair next to him and folded his hands on the tabletop, settling into a listening posture.

Poluccia barely spared him a glance. “Everyone, this is Juniper Fortuna,” he said. He was Almèrevan, and had never lost the accent, despite what Juniper had said was nearly two decades in Fiarri; if he’d ever had a surname, he had abandoned it with his former home. “Fortuna, this is Antoni Collona, Vincenzo the Head, Lucrezia de la Costa, and Captain Battista Nazana.”

Juniper had adopted the polite but remote expression he put on whenever he needed to deal with negotiations. “I prefer Juniper,” he said. “This is my colleague, Monteo della Scalla.” Monteo tapped his forehead in salute, but said nothing. “So, signores, signoras—Poluccia tells me one of you might be able to get my supplies into Almèreva.”

“Yes, and I haven’t the faintest idea why he’s offering to cut us in on his market,” drawled Lucrezia de la Costa. She was a fair-skinned elf with spectacles, and wouldn’t have looked out of place in the library of Almèreva’s Faculty of Cultural Studies. “So what’s the catch, _Juniper?_ ”

Juniper looked to Poluccia, one eyebrow raised; the other man simply raised his hands in defeat and gestured for him to continue. “Poluccia is Almèrevan, but he’s not a patriot,” Juniper said. “He doesn’t bring in supplies to help the resistance, he does it to make money. He doesn’t want to carry my cargo when he can’t turn around and sell it to the highest bidder himself.”

“And there’s too fucking much of it,” Poluccia added. “I can’t go sneaking all this shit in. My boat’s not that big.”

“So you expect one of us to take the loss instead?” rumbled Vincenzo the Head. He was a dwarf, dark-skinned and full-bearded and nearly as broad as he was tall. “None of us are patriots either, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re not even from your stinking city.”

“I can pay,” Juniper said. He was still smiling politely, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m well aware of the realities of your business, signore. I’m looking for a courier, not a merchantman. I’ll pay for the use of your cargo hold, and for the delivery. But I need someone who has the space and means to get it in without having to slink up to the city in the dead of night.”

“Well, that’s me out, then,” said Antoni Collona. He was an elf, handsome, with a cheerful mouth and unusually light blue eyes. “My boat’s no bigger than Poluccia’s. Honestly, Luccito, I don’t know why you even bothered asking me here. Unless it was just for this beauty,” he added, giving Juniper a frank once-over.

Monteo bristled. Juniper just raised an eyebrow.

Collona was somehow undaunted by that expression. “How ‘bout it, darling?” he said, and settled a hand on Juniper’s thigh. “Want to find somewhere quiet with me once all this sordid business is dealt with?”

Monteo found himself torn between two conflicting impulses. The first was terror: the heart-pounding instinct to make sure no one else had heard, to distance himself, to shut Collona up for his own good before the secret police came down on him—but, after all, there were no secret police here, and the rest of the table seemed no more dismayed by his boldness than anyone would be to have a colleague disrupt a business meeting to proposition a client. Monteo knew that sexual deviance wasn’t illegal in Fiarri, had seen women walking arm in arm with their children trailing after them, had met men sharing homes and hearth fires without a single second glance aimed their way—he knew. But he didn’t _know_.

His second impulse, of course, was to scorch the man’s hand from his arm for so much as daring to lay it on Juniper.

But Juniper barely even glanced at him. “I didn’t say you could touch me,” he said, and smacked his hand away, so lightly it was nearly an insult.

Collona sat back, a look of incredulous anger stealing over his face. “What,” he said, “you think you’re too good for me?”

“Yes,” Juniper said, without batting an eye. Monteo very nearly choked.

“For fuck’s sake, Tonino,” Poluccia said wearily, before things could escalate any further. “Can’t you keep it in your pants for _one_ night? You’re right, I don’t know why I invited you, get the fuck out of here.”

Collona glared around the gathering, but got no sympathy from any quarter: de la Costa just smirked at him, and Vincenzo the Head laughed outright. Stiff with offended dignity, he stood, stalking off towards the bar.

“So. As I was saying,” Juniper said, with utterly unruffled calm. “I need a courier. One who can get my supplies to my resistance contacts, without having them confiscated by the Seneschal’s people. What can you do for me?”

For a moment the table was silent, the noise of the rowdy tavern sweeping over them. Then Vincenzo the Head cleared his throat. “I could likely handle it,” he said. “If the price was right, of course. Though I wouldn’t be able to guarantee delivery myself. I’m a financier, not a sailor. I’d be trusting it to one of my people.”

Juniper sat forward just slightly, tapping his fingertips against the table. “And how far do you trust your people?”

Vincenzo spread his hands, as if to say, what do you think? “As far as these things go,” he said. “They’ve carried plenty of special cargos for me over the years. I suppose the real question is, how far are _you_ willing to trust my people with _your_ people?”

Juniper smiled, thin and dangerous. “So you do understand the issue at hand.”

The dwarf shrugged, a massive shift of his bulky shoulders. “The nature of the business. Personally I think it doesn’t pay to have my clients arrested, but whether my hired hands would feel the same…”

“Of course,” Juniper said. “Your honesty does you credit.”

Vincenzo the Head just gave an ironic half-bow.

Juniper looked to de la Costa. “And you?”

“How large is your cargo?” she said, and then before he could answer: “No, don’t tell me, I can see it on your face. I doubt I’ll be much use to you. I sail on a merchanter, but I’m only second mate.” Meaning, Monteo surmised, that she didn’t have authority over the cargo they took on. Her captain likely didn’t know she was smuggling. “My usual goods are the sort that can be… quickly offloaded dockside, shall we say.”

“Ah,” Juniper said. “Drugs?”

“Mostly illegal alchemical supplies, actually,” she said, with the touch of a smile. She nodded to Monteo. “I’m sure your friend could tell you all about it.”

Monteo, biting back a grin, couldn’t resist tipping his spectacles down just enough to flash her a glimpse of his eyes. “I thought you looked like the university type.”

Delightfully, de la Costa just laughed.

At the other end of the table, Captain Battista Nazana shifted in her seat. “This cargo of yours,” she said. “Is it illegal, or just illegal for the wrong person?” She was a dwarf, with copper skin and a closely trimmed beard, her hair shaved at the sides and braided tightly back against her crown. This was the first time she’d spoken the whole meeting; she had a broad, rolling accent Monteo had never heard before, and couldn’t even begin to place.

Juniper turned to look at her. “It’s legal, at least theoretically,” he said. “Some of it is new enough not to be regulated at all. That part will have to be handled carefully.”

Captain Nazana nodded, as though that was only to be expected. “But I could safely allow the rest to be inspected,” she said, “if I could produce a transport authorization to have it brought through the gates of the city.”

Juniper’s focus sharpened palpably. “You have a forger that skilled?”

“Don’t question my business,” she said comfortably, “and I won’t question yours.”

“I ought to know what it is I’d be paying for,” he returned. “You have the space?”

“My ship is a carraca,” the captain said. “And I own her outright. If I say to make space, there will be space. I can get your goods into Almèreva, Juniper Fortuna, and I can guarantee them personally. But it will not come cheap.”

Juniper narrowed his eyes, considering her for a long moment, and named a price.

By the time they had haggled their way to an agreement and shaken hands across the table, Poluccia had had time to go to the bar, procure a bottle of wine, and return, with enough glasses in hand for the entire table to drink to their accord. That could have been merely the beginning to a long night, but with his deal struck Juniper seemed instead filled with restless energy. He arranged with Captain Nazana to meet her at her ship the next morning, then with Poluccia to have a letter conveyed to his Almèrevan contacts; then he and Monteo finished their wine and took leave of the tavern, making their way back up the hill towards their apartments.

“So. That went well,” Monteo said, with just the tentative edge of a question.

Juniper nodded. “She seems—reliable. I’ll know more when I see her ship tomorrow, but I’m near certain we made a good deal.”

“Good. That’s good,” Monteo said. He was silent for a time as they climbed the cobbled streets, chewing on his cheek in consideration. “How much money have we got left, lucky Juniper?” he said finally.

Juniper pulled a face, a brief expressive flash that was gone as soon as it appeared. “Less than I’d like,” he said, his hand settling on Monteo’s shoulder reassuringly. “But we’re alright. I’m hoping we’re not going to need it much longer.”

Before they returned, he meant. Lifting his hand to cover Juniper’s for a moment, Monteo just nodded, and they wound their way back through the darkness of the Fiarran night to their temporary home.

Monteo returned to the College of Mages the next afternoon to meet with Alessia. Though he had initially resolved not to get his hopes up, his attempt at pessimism turned out to be unwarranted: she _had_ been able to speak with the dean, and had wrangled a promise from him to make at least a few minutes’ time for Monteo before the end of the week. Whether he would be able to convince him of anything was another matter, but Alessia was tentatively hopeful: though the dean had no great interest in Almèrevan politics, he had seemed intrigued at the possibility of collaboration between their Colleges. Elated, Monteo had thanked her profusely, and then went down to the shore to spend an enthusiastic hour telling stories of his student days to Sanderling, Eelgrass, and two of their friends.

The meeting was set for four days hence, at the midmorning bell. Monteo rose early that morning, wanting to look his best, and found that Juniper had already hauled a bucket of water up for him from the fountain at the end of their street. He scrubbed himself down in their tiny bedroom with cold water and a rough cloth, re-braided his beard, and tidied his hair back into a new topknot; then he took out the razor and bronze hand mirror from his casket and carefully cleaned up the edges of his beard and hairline. Finally, he dug out his father’s silver beard rings and clasped them all along the length of his braid. Some of the jewellery he had brought had been sold already—but these would be the last to go.

He was fully dressed—in clean white linen shirt, ivory and slate striped hose, and the best doublet he had brought from Almèreva, a blue brocade that nearly matched his eyes—when he emerged into the front room of their apartments. Juniper was already at work, packing up his supplies for Captain Nazana; the second half of his breakfast of new figs, prosciutto, and fresh bread had been left on the table for Monteo. He looked up at Monteo’s approach, a smile in his eyes, and then paused. For a moment his hands stilled on the stack of bundles in front of him.

“Well?” Monteo said, once it became clear Juniper wasn’t going to say anything. He was a beat too late to sound natural; he felt confused and off-balance, being looked at by those dark eyes. He spread his arms. “What do you think? Good enough to win an alliance with the dean?”

Juniper stood, coming around the table to him. “You look good,” he said. He smoothed his hand along Monteo’s shoulder, straightening the line of his doublet, and abruptly Monteo was struck by the sense memory of the first time Juniper had touched him at the Red Door, that exact same gesture. There was a slightly self-deprecating smile on Juniper’s lips when he drew back. “He’d be lucky to have you for an ally.”

Monteo just blinked, taking a moment to get his bearings. “Right. So. I take it I have your approval,” he said. Casting around for something to do with his hands, he picked up a fig from the table and twisted off the stem. “Oh, thanks for getting me the water.”

“Of course,” Juniper said. He stepped away, returning to the task he had interrupted, and suddenly Monteo could breathe again. “I hope it goes well.”

His meeting was fast approaching. Monteo hastily ate his breakfast and set out for the College, his spirits high. In good time he arrived at the dean’s office, where he was ushered to a chair by the secretary and offered wine, tea, or coffee. He declined all three, not wanting to sit and fiddle restlessly with a cup while he waited; instead he picked unobtrusively at the hems of his sleeves until at long last the midmorning bell sounded in the tower of Fiarri’s largest cathedral, and he was granted access to the office proper.

Master Michaele Ferraro, the Dean of the Fiarran College of Mages, was a heavyset, powerfully built elf of middle age, his brown skin sternly lined and his hair greying at the temples. He was seated in a leather chair behind a solid wooden desk, surrounded by bookshelves and tastefully reserved paintings, against the backdrop of large glass windows overlooking the College grounds and the harbour. He got to his feet as Monteo entered the room, leaning over the desk to shake his hand.

“Master Baiamonte della Scalla,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m told you’re a visiting lecturer from Almèreva.”

“Only in the most technical sense, I’m afraid,” Monteo said. “I might more accurately be termed a political exile. Your College has been kind enough to grant me temporary status while I’m staying in Fiarri.”

“I see,” the dean said, resuming his seat. He gestured for Monteo to take the chair that had been placed across from his desk. “Well, we’re happy to have you, of course, for however long you’re with us. We’ve very much valued the contributions of visiting masters in the past.”

“I appreciate it,” Monteo said, settling into the chair. “The assistance of my Fiarran colleagues has been invaluable to me thus far.”

Ferraro nodded perfunctorily, then said, “I don’t mean to cut the pleasantries short, but my time is limited. What’s this all about? One of my masters was quite insistent that I meet with you.”

Monteo spared a thought to wish the Penitent’s blessings on Alessia. “It concerns the nature of my exile to Fiarri, as a matter of fact,” he said. “You’re aware of the political situation in Almèreva, I’m certain.”

“Mmm, yes. A grim sort of business,” the dean said, the stern lines of his face deepening momentarily. “I’m told your Prince rules with a heavy hand.”

“That—might be one way of putting it,” Monteo said, briefly unsettled. Fiarri was distant enough from Almèreva that his home’s concerns were of little immediacy to the people here, but it always put him wrong-footed when they spoke of it in the abstract. “It’s—well, to put it frankly, sir, it’s brutal. I fled the city three months ago with a companion after we made an enemy of the Seneschal. We came to Fiarri hoping to find help for our people.”

“And, being a mage yourself, you naturally thought to begin your search here,” Ferraro summed up.

“Well, yes,” Monteo said. “The College of Mages is the only institution in Almèreva that comes close to matching the power wielded by the Prince, but in terms of our potential for legitimate liberation we’re still dangerously outmatched. I would hardly expect anything in the nature of resistance fighters, but support from the mainland would be… honestly, sir, it’s hard to describe how valuable it would be. The people of Almèreva are sorely in need of someone at our backs.”

Ferraro was silent for a long moment, his blocky hands folded together on the desk before him. “You’re proposing a moral argument, then,” he said finally. He looked up, meeting Monteo’s eyes over his spectacles; his irises were a piercing pale violet. “For, what—covertly supporting a revolution?”

Distantly, Monteo began to suspect he had somehow stepped very poorly.

“Is there some other argument you might find more compelling?” he said, a thread of desperation creeping into his voice. “Sir, Almèreva needs help. The College of Mages is insulated from the worst of it, and even there we’re constantly looking over our shoulders for fear of the secret police. I don’t want to think about what my colleagues must believe happened to me. Everyone knows someone who’s been made to disappear. _Everyone_. We’re a city under siege by our own leaders.”

The dean sighed. “I do feel for you,” he said, and Monteo’s heart sank. “It’s a deeply unfortunate situation. But if you think the Fiarran College of Mages is going to support treason, you’ve sorely misjudged us.”

Monteo inhaled sharply. “Treason!” he cried, forgetting himself entirely. “The resistance in Almèreva are the only people in the city brave enough to stand up for justice! They’re trying to save us all!”

But at his outburst Ferraro’s expression had hardened. “This meeting is over,” he said. “And you are not to speak on this further to any members of my College, or I’ll see to it that your status as visiting lecturer is revoked. You are dismissed.”

Instantly Monteo’s fury evaporated, replaced with a sick sense of dread. “Sir, please—if you’d just reconsider—”

“Be grateful I’m not revoking your position immediately,” the dean snapped. “Now get out of my office before I change my mind.”

There was nothing Monteo could do. It had taken him weeks to have this meeting set up, and only five minutes to utterly ruin his chances. Clenching his fists against the shaking in his hands, he stood, bowed, and left the room. He must have made some farewell, but he couldn’t have said what it was; he barely even noticed where his feet were carrying him as he fled the dean’s office, and then the College itself. It was only when he found himself ascending the stairs to his own apartments that he realized where he was going at all.

Juniper was still in the front room; he looked up when Monteo entered, welcome in his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he said. “How was your meeting?”

Monteo said nothing, scarcely knowing what to do with himself now that his forward momentum had run out.

“Monteo?” Juniper said. Suddenly he was in front of him, gentle hands cupping his face, touching his shoulder, turning him to sit in the nearest chair. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

The laugh that wrenched itself from Monteo was utterly mirthless. “I fucked up, Juniper,” he said. “I don’t know what I did. Alessia thought I had a good chance of—I hoped I’d—but it’s all ruined. The dean practically threw me out. The College won’t help us.”

Juniper had gone still for a moment when Monteo began speaking, but now he went smoothly to one knee, looking up into his face with something like sympathy in his eyes. “Oh, Monteo,” he said. “It’s not your fault. Do you know how rare it is that anyone commits their aid at all? It would have helped. Of course it would. But you can’t expect it.” Carefully he wiped the tears from Monteo’s cheeks; only then did Monteo realize he’d been crying at all. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ve already put so much more work into this than I ever could have asked.”

Monteo felt a tiny knot unwind itself in his chest at the knowledge that Juniper wasn’t disappointed in him, but the greater distress remained. “I just don’t understand why they won’t _help_ ,” he said miserably. “Why don’t they care? Why didn’t anyone stop it? Isn’t it enough that our people live in fear?”

But Juniper just shrugged, as unconsciously elegant as he ever was. “They tried,” he said, “when the Prince first took power. But it happened so quickly, nobody had a proper chance before it was already over. And for a long time no one really knew how bad it was,” he added. “They still don’t. And the throne has allies, and no one wants to start a war. What are one or two hundred thousand lives? It’s _stable_.”

It was the quiet way he said it that properly brought it home for Monteo. For him it was a revelation, but for Juniper it was a fact of the world, a truth he’d been contending with far longer than Monteo had himself been aware of the reality of Almèreva’s conditions. Taking a deep breath, he wrestled his despair back under control. “I hate it,” he said, and lifted his hand to cover Juniper’s, still resting against his cheek.

“I know,” Juniper said. “So do I. But we work with what we have.”

Monteo laughed, a little wetly. “At least you’ve been making progress,” he said. “Why are you so much better than I am at getting what you ask for?”

It was a joke, if a forced one, and he expected Juniper to reply in kind—to remind Monteo he had ten years of practice on him, or to teasingly cite his dazzling good looks. But instead Juniper just considered him for a long moment, slowly running his thumb along his cheekbone. “Because when I want something important,” he said finally, “I don’t stop to ask.”

Monteo spent the rest of the day helping Juniper pack the last of his supplies. Robbed of his usual routine, and with his longterm goals unceremoniously ripped out from under him, he was restless and dull, only capable of going where he was pointed and doing as he was told. He loaded weapons and food stores and alchemical supplies into boxes, nailed crates closed, stuffed extra rags and loose straw into gaps between the shockwave globes to keep them secure in transit. Around noon, at Juniper’s request, he stepped out to the nearby market to buy their luncheon. When Captain Nazana’s sailors arrived with a wagon at midafternoon, he supervised the loading, while Juniper made sure the last of the cargo was carried safely from their apartments.

Juniper arranged to meet with the Captain one last time before she sailed the next morning; then, with an exchange of coin and a clasp of hands, the wagon was off, rattling down the street towards the docks. The project of three months was complete.

They were eating dinner at the table in their now unnervingly bare apartments when there was a knock on the door.

Juniper glanced to Monteo. “Were you expecting anyone?” he said, low.

Monteo shook his head. “Does anyone even know we’re here aside from your smuggler friends?” Juniper had told Nazana and Poluccia where to pick up the cargo he was paying them to ship, but their people knew the importance of discretion, and had never come by without prior arrangement.

“No one I’ve told,” Juniper said. On silent feet he stood, moving to the door with an unnerving, lethal grace that Monteo shouldn’t have found nearly as compelling as he did. He didn’t normally carry his knives at home—though there was always at least one nearby—but he had strapped one on before Nazana’s people arrived earlier and hadn’t removed it; now he slipped it from its sheath and settled it in his hand, where it fit like a natural extension of his arm. Behind him, Monteo got to his feet and stepped clear of the table, already feeling the tingle of power collecting in his palms.

Juniper nodded to him and placed his hand on the lock. Silently Monteo counted to three.

In an instant Juniper went from poised stillness to a deadly blur of motion. He threw the door open and grabbed the person standing there by her collar, yanking her into the apartments and twisting her around to pin her against his chest, the knife pressing against her stomach. She yelped in surprise, struggling against him, knocking her spectacles to the floor—and then the garment Monteo had thought was a dress resolved itself into a black academic’s robe, and the rest of her snapped into familiar relief.

“Wait!” he cried, letting the power in his hands bleed off. “Wait. I know her.”

Pinioned in Juniper’s hold, her void-black eyes reflecting back nothing less than terror, was Master Alessia Subatara.

Juniper had stopped as soon as Monteo spoke; now he slowly relaxed his grip, drawing in a measured breath and stepping back. “Alessia!” Monteo said. He hurried forward, ushering her further away from him. His heart was still pounding in his throat. “Penitent’s tears, don’t scare me like that. Are you alright?”

Alessia sucked in a shuddering gasp, her body seeming to convulse as she stumbled forward. “Don’t scare you? Don’t scare _me!_ Monteo, what—what was—why would you—”

“It’s alright! It’s alright,” Monteo said. “It was a mistake. Here, sit down.” He pulled out one of the chairs and turned it around for her. She collapsed into it, still shaking, and looked up to Juniper with an expression that was rapidly turning to anger.

“What is _wrong_ with you? How is that a reasonable response to someone knocking on your door?!”

Juniper’s face was impassive. Silently he stepped to the side, closing and locking the apartment door; only then did he speak. “I apologize,” he said, sketching a brief bow in her direction. “We weren’t expecting anyone. I have reason for excess caution.” His eyes flicked to Monteo, then away.

“Alessia, this is Juniper Fortuna,” Monteo said gently. “He’s spent ten years with the Almèrevan resistance, and the Seneschal has a personal grudge against him.”

For a moment Alessia just blinked at him, then her eyes widened. “Oh.”

“The Seneschal has a personal grudge against both of us,” Juniper corrected him, sliding his knife back into the sheath on his arm. He smiled wryly. “It doesn’t make for restful sleep. I truly am sorry, signora…?”

“It’s ‘master,’ in fact,” Alessia said. Her voice was still a little thin, but it was firming up as she regained her bearings. “Master Alessia Subatara, of the Fiarran College of Mages.”

“She’s the one who helped me get the meeting with the dean,” Monteo added. Abruptly he made a face. “Which did not go well, for the record. I’m sorry, I intended to see you afterward, but under the circumstances it entirely slipped my mind.”

“No, I understand,” Alessia said. “And I know. That’s actually why I came to speak with you.” She cast Juniper a slightly exasperated look. “If I had known what sort of welcome to expect, I might have waited to find you at the markets.”

Juniper was unperturbed by her disapprobation. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he said, “but how exactly did you know where to find us? We’ve taken care to keep our whereabouts quiet.”

“I suspect that’s my fault, actually,” Monteo said. Stooping, he scooped up Alessia’s lenses and handed them over, then swung the other chair out to sit facing her. “We’ve been in close enough contact for a location spell, and I trust her enough that my wards wouldn’t register it as a threat.”

Juniper looked to Alessia, who was resettling her spectacles on her nose; she just nodded. Finally, the last line of tension eased from him, and he came up behind Monteo, resting his hands on his shoulders. “We’re safe enough, then. Thank you.”

Wordlessly Monteo lifted his hand, squeezing Juniper’s fingers. “Right. So. You wanted to talk about my meeting with the dean?”

“Yes,” Alessia said, and here she was on firmer ground, the flash of annoyance back in her eyes. “You’ll recall that I said he seemed interested? In the possibility of collaboration with a free Almèreva, if not in the liberation itself?”

“I do,” Monteo said. “I went in thinking I might be meeting a collaborator. But he was—much more disinterested than I expected. Aggressively so.”

“So I heard,” she said, a grim twist to her face. “Well, I learned the reason why. Someone who overheard my conversation with you took it to the governors. They’re the ones who put pressure on the dean.”

“The governors?” Monteo said blankly. “You mean—the Fiarran civil administration? Why would they have any say in what the College does?”

Even behind tinted lenses, Alessia’s surprise was clear. “Does the Almèrevan College not have a board of governors?” she said. “They’re appointed from the Lordship Council, responsible for managing the College’s funding and privileges in Fiarri.”

“Are you telling me you have a bunch of non-mage aristocrats in charge of deciding how your College spends its money?” Monteo said, aghast. Independent institutions, he reminded himself. He couldn’t assume he knew how the Fiarran College would operate just because he understood the College in Almèreva. “Penitent’s holy Name. Don’t let the Prince get his hands on that idea. He’d have us shackled within the week.”

“Or worse,” Juniper said. “The Seneschal already leans on your finances badly enough.”

“Yes, well,” Alessia said tartly. “You can see the problem, I’m sure. The governors are of the politically minded sort, and they’re quite keen not to disrupt Fiarri’s trade with Almèreva. Your little lagoon has a stranglehold on commerce in the north Otrinic Sea.”

Monteo exchanged a look with Juniper. “Stability,” Juniper murmured. “What did I say?”

“So what do we do?” Monteo said. “Is there any chance the dean could be talked around?”

Alessia sighed. “I don’t know. He stopped by my office after your meeting, and… well, he didn’t outright forbid me talking to you, but I’m sure he’d appreciate my taking the hint. And I’ve been told not to discuss Almèrevan politics at all.” She hesitated, her hands twisting together in her lap. “That was why I thought—I’d better come find you. We might not be able to speak freely at the College anymore.”

“Alright—what about these governors, then? Can we petition them? Is there a process for that?”

“I could ask for an audience,” she said doubtfully. “It would be a formal proceeding, though. We wouldn’t be able to just speak to them personally. But at this point that may be our only real option.”

Behind Monteo, Juniper made a quietly strangled noise.

Alessia raised an eyebrow. “Something to say?”

“Well, since you ask,” Juniper said. His hands tightened fractionally on Monteo’s shoulders. “I don’t understand why you’re wasting your time with this. They’ve made their position clear.”

“Juniper,” Monteo said carefully, “are you suggesting we just give up on the College’s help?”

“No, you’re missing the point,” Juniper said. He let Monteo go, pacing around the chair to face them both at once, gesturing sharply. “The governors aren’t important. The dean isn’t important. We don’t need to go through them to get what we need.”

“If you want the College’s support, the only way _is_ through them,” Alessia said. “I know it probably doesn’t make much sense if you’re not an academic, but—”

“It has nothing to do with being an academic!” Juniper said. “We don’t need the College. We need the people. Presumably there are people who want to help.” He waved a hand in her direction, frustrated and sardonic. “I can only assume _you_ want to help, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course I do.”

“Then stop waiting around for someone to say you’re allowed,” he snapped. “You don’t need _permission_ , Master Subatara, you just need to do it.”

For a long, long moment she just looked at him.

“Not through the College,” he said. “Not as an institution. Just _people_.”

Monteo’s mind was racing. Where before they had been hemmed in by a maze of dead ends and stumbling blocks, now he felt like he was flying. It was as if Juniper had taken the entire world and upended it, dumping out the unnecessary chaff and leaving him staring down pure purpose. So the dean had refused them. The dean was just one mage. There were dozens or hundreds of masters at the College—they didn’t need him.

Monteo looked at Alessia, his heart in his throat. He liked her; he trusted her enough to allow her to find him; but he didn’t _know_ her. Would she be willing to go against the dean’s orders? Or would that be a bridge too far?

Her hesitation dragged, and dragged, and then almost imperceptibly her spine began to firm. She squared her shoulders. “What do you need?”

“Money. Allies,” Juniper said immediately, as Monteo restrained a shout of triumph. “Resources non-mages don’t have access to. Alchemy, spells, information—whatever you can get us. Warding alarms, truth spells, medical supplies. Chiusura powder, if you can get it. A way to get in and out of the city without anyone noticing. People who might be willing to fight, if it comes to that. And anything at all you have on enchantment.”

Alessia clearly hadn’t been expecting such a rapid flood of requests. “I—I think I can scrape up most of that,” she said. She turned back to Monteo. “Come see me again. Tomorrow. We’ll meet in my office, we won’t have to worry about being overheard there. I think I know some other masters we might be able to bring to our side.”

“Are you sure that’s safe? What about the dean?” Monteo said. “I won’t be much use if I get my status revoked, and there could be consequences for you—”

“We will make it work,” she said firmly. With a clear direction forward she had her feet under her again, and gods help anyone who tried to sway her from her path. “If we have to start meeting in taverns or private parlours, so be it. But in the meantime I haven’t yet been told to stop speaking to you, and I intend to keep acting as your sponsor.”

A rush of gratitude swelled in Monteo’s chest. “Alessia, thank you,” he said. “Truly. I’ll come round first thing tomorrow morning. Between the two of us I’m sure we can scare up a strategy.”

Alessia stood, and Monteo did as well, clasping her hand in both of his. She smiled, wry and warm and a touch resigned. “Take care, Monteo.”

“You too, Alessia.”

“Master Subatara,” Juniper said, his fingertips seeking out the edge of Monteo’s shoulder once more. “We are in your debt.”

“Oh, please,” Alessia said. “You can thank me once I’ve actually done something.”

She took her leave. Monteo locked the door behind her, then turned back to Juniper, elated and victorious. But to his surprise Juniper wasn’t nearly so pleased as he’d expected; instead he had seated himself at the table again, gazing down at the remains of their dinner with a pensive expression.

“What’s wrong?” Monteo said.

Juniper shook himself from his thoughts. “Nothing,” he said, summoning up a smile. “It’s a step forward. A good one. It’s going to make a big difference.”

That couldn’t be everything. “But…?” Monteo prompted.

Juniper sighed. “But I’m worried it won’t be enough.”

Monteo said nothing, crossing to him and taking his hand. Juniper curled his fingers around Monteo’s, squeezing once. The smile he turned up to him was rueful.

“It’s just,” he said, “no matter what else we can manage—whatever advantages we can manufacture—we still have to deal with the Prince and the Seneschal. It’s not just their guards and the secret police and whatever foreign forces they can call in, it’s not just the fight itself. It’s _them_. That’s where this has to end. And if we can’t manage to take them down, I’m afraid that it’ll all have been for nothing.”

The Prince and the Seneschal had powerful magic at their command; the protections on the palace itself were the least of it. The Seneschal, Paolo Volpe, was an expert in enchantment—mental manipulation—as Monteo and Juniper had good reason to remember. Whether the Prince shared the talent was unknown; the two of them had gone to some trouble to keep his capabilities concealed, and there was precious little known about enchantment in Almèreva in any case: Volpe had had all the known materials on it seized and burned long before Monteo was born. And then there was the mysterious ritual magic they had used to extend their lifespans: both men appeared to be only in their early middle age, but they had been in power for fifty years now—and had been young men already when that rule began. But whether the magic merely slowed their aging, or gave them other forms of resilience against death, no one could have said.

“Hey,” Monteo said softly. “We’ll find something. We’ve got to. You’re brilliant, lucky Juniper. I know you can make this work.”

Juniper laughed, incredulous and unexpected, and tipped his forehead down against Monteo’s shoulder. “Oh, Monteo,” he said. “I am so, so glad you’re with me.”

Monteo slid his arms around him and held him close.

When Monteo left for the College the next morning, Juniper accompanied him. They bought breakfast from the street market, then parted ways at the waterfront—Juniper to the docks where Captain Nazana’s ship was making ready to sail, Monteo along the shore toward the College of Mages. Sometime in the middle of the night, he had formulated a plan: after his strategy meeting with Alessia he intended to take himself to the library and spend the rest of the day researching anything he could find on enchantment. Juniper was right—they needed to find a way to neutralize the rulers of Almèreva, and if anywhere in Fiarri would have the information they needed, the College library was it.

He was walking along the retaining wall at the edge of the grounds, still deep in thought, when his musings were interrupted by a trilling call. He looked up, and then down—and spotted Sanderling pushing herself up out of the water, chirping at him anxiously.

All at once the previous day came rushing back to him. “Oh, Penitent’s tears,” he said, spinning up a translation spell between his palms and hopping down to the rocks that lined the shore. He touched it to her ears and said immediately, “Sanderling, I am so sorry—I got some bad news yesterday, and I completely forgot I was meant to see you—just a moment—”

Quickly he repeated the spell on himself, and all at once her chattering resolved itself into meaning. “—you’re alright, I was so worried! I went all along the shore looking for you, but there was no sign, and no one who could understand me had seen you—”

Unlike the other merpeople, Sanderling knew—at least in outline—the circumstances that had led Monteo to flee Almèreva. Her fear for him wasn’t mere concern: it was founded on the knowledge that there were people out there who would have loved to see him disappear. But despite that, Monteo hadn’t entirely realized how much she cared.

Before he could stop to think he had pulled her into a damp embrace. “You,” he said, “are a true friend. I’m safe, I promise. I just completely lost track of my day.”

Sanderling drew back, but kept her webbed hands on his arms. She studied his face. “Is everything alright?” she said finally.

“It’s—not as bad as it seemed yesterday,” Monteo said. “I’ve suffered a setback. But I think we’ll still be able to make it work. Despite everything there really are people here who want to help.”

“Good,” she said, and then turned Monteo’s world on its ear for the second time in less than a day: “I know I’d give anything to be able to one day see my ancestors’ home.”

He stared at her.

Sanderling looked back, her expression slowly shifting from sincerity to confusion. “Monteo?” she said. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just,” Monteo said, then broke off. “Why didn’t I _think_ of it? So many of the merpeople have roots in Almèreva—”

“Monteo?” Sanderling repeated, uncertain.

“Sanderling,” he said, “do you think you could convince some of your family to come meet with me? The older adults, your parents or cousins? Wait, no, not me—Juniper. I need your people to talk to Juniper.”

“I—I think so,” she said, bewildered. ”But—what is this for?”

“What if you really could see Almèreva?” Monteo said. He was too excited to slow down. “Not someday. Soon. What if your people could come back to live? For good?”

“But—the Prince—” Sanderling began, and then clapped her hands over her mouth with a squeak. Her eyes were wide. “We could _help_ ,” she said, wonder in her voice.

Monteo laughed, giddy with possibility. “Come back this afternoon,” he said. “Tell me what your parents said. We’ll make a time to meet.” Sanderling fluttered both hands in emphatic affirmative, her jaw set and determined. Monteo grinned and embraced her again, then turned to clamber back up the rocks, hoisting himself over the retaining wall. “I’ll see you later. I need to find Juniper.” His meeting with Alessia would just have to wait.

He hurried back the way he had come—walking at first, but before long he found himself nearly running, his every thought fixed on getting to the docks. He reached the corner where he and Juniper had split up and turned, practically tumbling out onto the wharf as he frantically scanned the crowd. Juniper had given him a description of Captain Nazana’s caracca—if he could just find the ship, he’d find him as well—

Juniper, when Monteo spotted him, was standing on the pier a few paces back from the captain, watching as she directed her crew in preparing to make sail. He was beautiful in the morning sunlight, neatly buttoned into a rust-red doublet, his black hair carelessly loose and blowing in the ocean breeze. Monteo couldn’t think when he had ever been happier to see him.

“Juniper!” he called.

And Juniper turned towards him, a dazzling smile already touching his lips just at the sound of Monteo’s voice even as he registered confusion. “Monteo?” he said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting with Subatara.”

Monteo came to an abrupt halt before him, breathing hard from his run. He couldn’t stop grinning. “That can wait, lucky Juniper. This is more important,” he said. “I think I’ve found us a new advantage.”

**Author's Note:**

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